


wellspring

by azazelsocks



Series: Boy King Sam discord prompt fills [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Gen, Human Sacrifice, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24209944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azazelsocks/pseuds/azazelsocks
Summary: Formonicawoe’s prompt:After Sam dies at Cold Oak he wakes up in Hell. With the help of some of the other “Azazel’s kids” he resurrects himself (and them) and together they take down Azazel and Sam takes the throne. Your choice which of the psychic kids (if any) stay on Azazel’s side.To become a god, you must first have something sacrificed in your own name.
Series: Boy King Sam discord prompt fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747438
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13
Collections: BoyKingSam discord server prompt-fight fills





	wellspring

Hell’s little prince woke in the chasm of the worlds, where the dead wander howling. At first he thought he was alone, and then his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and found that he lay in the shadow of a tremendous tree, its roots dug like claws into blackened, ashy stone. Around him lay bodies, some of which he knew the faces of, and thus inferred the identities of the rest: the other members of Azazel’s little game. Sleeping or dead, he could not tell.

A distance away shone the wan, icy light of a single lantern, and the prince scrambled to his feet. He winced as he did so, but the pain faded quickly, as the dead swift forget their mortal wounds. 

The lantern hung over a stone well, and beside the well sat a figure the prince was sure was not a man. He had a pipe from which curled smoke of a strange color, and he watched silent with amusement as the prince approached, and inclined his head in greeting.

“Where am I?” the prince asked directly, for he had a brother he wished to return to, and no interest in playing word-games with mysterious creatures. 

“Look and see,” said the well’s guardian.

The prince looked upon him with suspicion, but he took a step closer to the well, and peered over the edge. The water was clear even in the darkness, and though the depths must have been unfathomable, something rolled over in the water and the prince found himself staring into the icy blue gaze of a single eye. Then he knew who he spoke to, and he straightened abruptly.

“Mímir,” he said, and the guardian inclined his head in agreement. “I have to make a sacrifice to you if I want to know how to go back.”

Mímir cackled. “Not to me, little prince. I am just the well-keeper. To the roots of the worlds. To the windswept ash.” And the prince saw then how the mighty tree’s roots did coil and reach as they wound ’round the well.

“What will I gain?”

“Wisdom, perhaps,” Mímir said. “Godhood, even. Or neither. Or something worse. Perhaps the wages of knowing would be apocalypse. There is no way to tell.”

“I have no weapon,” the prince said.

“Is that enough to stop you?”

It could not be, and so the prince sought about the ground, until he found a stretch of ash-root poking straight from the ground, and broke it off with much effort so that the end was sharp. He weighed it in his palms and deemed it a worthy spear. 

Mímir watched in indifferent curiosity as the prince climbed the massive arching roots to the trunk. The prince placed his back to the trunk and held forth his makeshift spear. “To myself I dedicate this sacrifice,” he cried, and plunged it into his own chest, that he was speared upon the tree, and hung there.

The pain was very great, and greater still it grew, made worse by hunger and thirst. Not nine but forty nights did he hang, his blood spilling forth, and the ash tree’s roots sucked greedily at the feast. He looked upon them, head hanging weary on his breast, delirious from pain and thirst, and on the fortieth night they seemed to form a pattern, as if they writhed in letters rather than unholy gibberish. An energy pulsed from them, razed through the ash trunk and the ash branch that speared the prince, and he felt as though his eyes were slashed open as he Saw. A horrible wail tore from the prince’s throat, and he flung himself forward, spear tearing as he went. He fell to the ground, catching himself on hands and knees, and when his fingertips touched ground the runes spun up and around him and Hell surged forth to welcome him.

He was a god then, for the first sacrifice in his name had been made, and he stood up. Made his way back to the place he had awoken.

It was the work of a moment to wake his brothers and sisters from death, and they gasped as they rose and saw his eyes shining yellow as the sun. 

“We have work to do,” he said, and opened the Way back to Earth.

**Author's Note:**

> The Hávamál’s story of how Óðinn won the secret of the runes and consequently his godhood by sacrificing himself to himself is one of my favorite myths, so I shamelessly stole it for Sam.


End file.
